


A Posteriori

by translunartea



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Drabble, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 10:15:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19788808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/translunartea/pseuds/translunartea
Summary: Or, the one where Ganondorf's mother dies.





	A Posteriori

**Author's Note:**

> Another old Tumblr drabble. Ganondorf having mommy issues is definitely one of my long-held headcanons.

He tore up the scrolls except for one, tucking the lone piece of parchment away in his robes. The others were insignificant; outdated decrees, expired bounties, aged drafted letters to a faraway king. Their pieces were scattered into the small fire pit at the center of the room and soon dissolved into ash, then dust, then nothing.

Without a sound he turned back to the belongings that surrounded him and struggled to decide what to do next. Gold and jewelry were piled in one chest, with books and tapestries in another. Candlesticks and silverware and rugs and clothing and drapes were packed but not away; Ganondorf had yet to close any of the chests at all. The key sat at the bottom of his pocket, small and glinting. He ran a thick thumb over it and remained rooted in place, silence and the crackle of fire accompanying him until he heard the shuffle of boots on the ground.

Still, he did not turn.

“It’s very empty,” Zelda remarked, her voice low but not hushed. “Have you gotten everything already?”

Ganondorf nodded, still thumbing the key. The walls were made of clay and mud and spit, reddish-brown and thick. The ground was hard stone, gritty and textured. Beneath his feet was once a large rug, patterned red and gold and high yellow, the center of it emblazoned with the Gerudo symbol. It was the first thing he’d rolled up and laid at the bottom of the largest trunk that his sisters had managed to bring him. Next had been the books — numerous titles and genres, ranging from science to philosophy to astronomy to geography. Maps and star charts had been littered all over the desk; he’d stacked them neatly and put them away, barely glancing twice at their contents.

He was aware that a figure was nearer to him. Zelda stood by his side, arms folded. Her fingers drummed silently on her forearm, nails plain and oblong-shaped. Ganondorf studied them for a moment, eyeing the pale neatness of her cuticles. Dirt and sand had begun to collect underneath the edges, particularly the thumbnail. Her skin had been sun-kissed and her hair was in a bun, strands and tendrils sticking out here and there. After a moment’s hesitance, he reached out and smoothed back what he could.

She eyed him, but did not protest. Merely, a sigh escaped her as she turned her attention back to the trunks. “What about the desk?” she asked. “Will it go as well?”

“It will be firewood,” Ganondorf murmured, hand back at his side. He mindlessly fiddled with the edge of his sleeve, fingers rubbing cotton and silk. “She would have…approved, I think.”

“You’re not sure?”

“With her, you never could be.”

_That trait’s passed on well_ , he thought, and thought again to say it aloud. Instead, he minded his tongue, and watched as Zelda moved forward to the trunk with the books. She tugged one from place, a thick and darkly-colored tome, its pages worn from constant reading.

“Oceanography,” she said. “I never thought —”

“My mother wasn’t one to make her interests well known,” Ganondorf interrupted, harsher than he’d intended. “Or much else about her. I only learned a week ago that she was ill, after all.”

Zelda nodded. “Your sisters seem to be — ah. Holding up, I suppose.”

“She’d have raised them that way.”

“But not you?”

“I did not say that.”

Zelda nodded once more, not pressing the matter. She returned the book to the trunk and began rifling through the documents, fingers moving deftly between the pages. Ganondorf watched her, knowing she needed to satisfy her curiosity. Were he any other person, and were she anyone else, it would have been seen as utter disrespect.

But they were only they, and he had never dealt with death in any normal sort of fashion.

“Will you want this?” Zelda tugged out a photograph. Almost reluctantly, Ganondorf let his eye wander to it; the face was as carved and regal as ever, eyes narrow and nose long. His mother could not be called pretty in the traditional sense, but her beauty was not what would make the history books of their people, as it never had from any of the queens and tribal leaders in the last millenia or two.

“I’ve already chosen a memento,” Ganondorf said quietly. “You may keep it, if you wish.”

Zelda had been looking at him carefully, eyes glowing with the firelight. She turned back to the photo, tilting her head. “She seems very intimidating.”

He grunted. She placed the photo back in the trunk, grimacing and wiping the back of her neck, shining with sweat.

“Nabooru is waiting with the guards and the cart. What should go first?”

Ganondorf, feeling suddenly much, much smaller than he genuinely was, looked down at his feet. They had not moved for about thirty minutes; perhaps longer. He wanted to say something, but his tongue and his hands and his bones altogether seemed completely frozen, to the point of actual _pain_.

A hand touched his jaw. He did not look up.

“Ganon?”

“The rug in the largest trunk,” he managed. “When I was much younger, we…we had sewn that. Together.”

Zelda blinked, then stood on her tiptoes to hold her husband round the shoulders, arms enveloping him tightly. Her scent filled his nostrils, something faintly lavender. His hands reached up and held her in return, eyes fluttering shut. His bright hair was loose and sweat ran down his body; he was uncomfortable and frozen and _unsure_ , more than anything.

“She was a great leader to her people,” he said, voice muffled by his wife’s shoulder. “That is how they will remember her.”

Zelda leaned back, placing her hands on his cheeks, fingers gentle. “And how will _you_ remember her?”

The words did not come easily, though he found that he had not hoped for such a thing to begin with. His eyes came half-open, searching the ground. “I’m — uncertain,” he muttered. “She lived quite a long life. I knew her for less than half of it. She struggled to find pride in my slipshod behavior; even more so when she caught wind of the engagement.”

“You know — I realized on the journey here,” Zelda murmured carefully. “Her passing date falls on our anniversary.”

Ganondorf let out a bark of sudden laughter. “That’d be her way,” he spat. “That’d be her _goddamned_ way.” He chuckled without no humor to it, his throat soon feeling raw. He enjoyed the sensation of Zelda’s hands on his skin and reached up to gently hold her wrists, eyes falling shut. “She all but cuts me off, chastises my marriage for two years, then has the nerve to die on — oh, to hell with it. She’s lucky her old age just caught up to her. She deserved to be — to be poisoned by leevers, or pelted with —”

Zelda kissed him briefly, soundlessly, and pulled back seconds later. “I know,” she only said, and it seemed enough for Ganondorf, who broke off completely. “But that’s over with. We’ll celebrate in her remembrance. And pity her for her ignorance. And that is the best we can do with what we’ve been given.”

Reluctantly, he nodded, and Zelda kissed him again before lowering herself. She turned from him and shut the hood of the first trunk, filled with clothes and candlesticks. Ganondorf watched the silver of the holder fade almost completely as the darkness of the trunk enclosed around it. She lifted the trunk and walked slowly past him, gently bumping his arm with her shoulder.

Without much thought, he reached into his robes for the piece of parchment. He unfolded it once, then twice, the text dark and curled:

_To my son,_

The rest of the blank page seemed intent on mocking him, as though the rest of his mother’s words were laying dormant beneath, invisible and undetected.

Still, he studied it; her handwriting was firm, the Y in “my” slightly crooked the same way as his. He traced it with a single finger, then forced himself to fold it up and put it away. It sat in one of his deeper pockets as he finally moved forward and shut the largest trunk, locking it tightly and lifting it from place.

The stone beneath was bare, and for a moment he gazed at it, knowing soon that the entire room would hold nothing but dust, and the resonance of his voice. He accepted this, turned, and walked out, folded parchment against his chest, eyes straight ahead.


End file.
